Won't You Take Me To
by V. Laike
Summary: 'Easy, dude,' Dad said, glancing in the rearview mirror. 'Give Sammy a break. It won't kill you to let him pick the music for a change.'


A/N: This has been sitting on my hard drive a _long time._ Inspired by a real life moment. Spoilers if you're so new to the series that you have not yet seen "Hunted."

Disclaimer: Y'all know that they're not mine, right? Not the characters, not the music, not anything you might recognize, right? Just so we're clear.

* * *

Won't You Take Me To . . .

by

V. Laike

He was finally getting to ride shotgun.

It had taken an unfortunate encounter with a raw head, a busted ankle for Dean, a trip to an urgent care outpatient facility for the three of them, and a hasty exit from town, but at age thirteen, Sammy Winchester was finally getting to ride shotgun.

Of course, he wouldn't be if Dean had had his way, but the back seat was the best place for the seventeen-year-old to keep the ankle elevated and iced. He'd tried propping the injured foot over the front seat—right next to Sam's face—after Dad refused to let him sit up front with his foot hanging out the window. But one too many swipes at the offending appendage as Dean tried to stick his toes in Sam's ear had resulted in a painful whack to the foot, and Dean had pulled back, retreating to his own corner and resorting to verbal assaults.

Sammy didn't care. He was riding shotgun, and it was awesome!

Sam reached for the radio dial. One of the perks Sam had always observed from the back seat was that as often as not, Dean got to choose the music. Of course, he always chose music Dad liked, but Sam figured that made sense, since Dean liked that music, too.

"Heyheyhey! What are you doing?" Dean's voice rang from behind him. "Leave it there!"

Strains of CCR soon gave way to static as Sam fiddled with the tuning dial. He smiled slowly at Dad's smirk of amusement.

"Easy, dude," Dad said, glancing in the rearview mirror. "Give Sammy a break. It won't kill you to let him pick the music for a change."

"Yeah, Dean," Sam said as he concentrated on finding a new station. It wasn't often anymore that Sam and Dad agreed on much of anything. He'd take it where he could get it. "Let me pick the music. Jerk."

"Bitch," Dean replied automatically and with vehemence.

"Boys!" The last time Sam and Dean had started in on the name calling, Dad had threatened to pull the car over. Dean had scoffed, but kept his mouth shut.

Finding something that sounded cool and awesome and different and, most importantly, would drive Dean nuts, he stopped on something that sounded like what Dean would call "techno- crap." The poppy, squeaking notes reminded Sam of a computer, but the beat was good and he grinned as Dean heaved a melodramatic sigh behind them.

"Good choice, bud," Dad said, nodding his approval. Dad's smirk told Sam that he was totally in on this with him. He figured Dad probably didn't like this music any more than Dean did, but to give Dean a hard time, Dad would play along.

_Gotta make a move to a  
Town that's right for me . . ._

"Hey, Dean. It's your favorite," Sam called to his brother as he turned up the volume.

"Disco?"

Sam grinned ear to ear at his brother's indignation.

"Out of everything else on the radio, you choose _disco_?"

_Won't you take me to  
Funkytown . . ._

Sam heard the leather of the seat squeak as Dean flopped back. "Oh, just shoot me now."

Dad's smirk grew into a smile. "Hey, if I survived the disco era, you can survive the aftermath."

"No, seriously. Shoot me." It was Dean's best martyred tone.

"I like it," Sam piped up.

"You would, you culturally stunted twerp."

Sam and Dad grinned at each other as Dean groaned behind them.

* * *

A decade later, and Sam still remembered Dean's disgust.

Standing on a rooftop opposite his motel room, from which he and a girl named Ava had just been shot at, Sam pulled out his cell phone to call his brother for help.

"Hello."

"Dean!"

"Sam, I've been looking for you." Dean sounded . . . off. Maybe a little too calm. No _Where the hell are you?_ or _Are you okay?_ or _What the hell were you thinkin' taking off like that?_

"Yeah. Look, I'm in Indiana—Lafayette."

"I know."

Okay, that did kind of surprise Sam. He thought he'd covered his tracks better than that. "You do?"

"Yeah, I talked to Ellen. Just got here myself. It's a real funky town."

Sam's stomach did an uneasy flip. _Just shoot me now_, he could hear his teenage brother say.

"You ditched me, Sammy." Dean's tone made sense now. He was trying to stay cool. Communicate as much information as possible without letting his captor know what he was doing.

"Yeah. I'm sorry. Look, right now, there's someone after me."

"What? Who?"

"I don't know. That's what we need to find out. Where are you?"

"I'm staying at 5637 Monroe Street. Why don't you meet me here?"

If someone was holding Dean, and Dean had just told Sam where they were, chances were Sam could be walking into a trap of some kind. But that was okay. He'd find Dean and they'd figure this out together. "Yeah, sure." He hung up the connection.

"What is it?" Ava asked anxiously.

"My brother's in trouble."

"What?"

"He gave me a code word. Someone's got a gun on him." Sam scribbled down the address Dean had just given him.

"Code word?" Ava sounded skeptical.

"Yeah—_funkytown_." She looked at him with confused inquiry. "He thought of it," Sam explained awkwardly. "It's kind of a long story. Come on."

_Just shoot me_, Dean had said once upon a time. Say what you will about disco, it fit their personal lexicon perfectly.

_~finis~_


End file.
